Moon Flower (Gone-to-Texas Trilogy) (28 page)

      
“Thet disagreement o' th' bowels still troublin' yew?” Obedience's shrewd gaze took in her friend's actions as well as her pallor.

      
“Just too many hard biscuits,” Deborah replied.

      
“Say, yore tender stomach 'n tuckered out feelins might'nt be cuz o' somethin' else, sides yore bein' a greenhorn?”

      
Deborah flushed and fidgeted, trying to decide if she should reveal her pregnancy to Obedience. “I don't want to be a burden, Obedience. I can do my share of the work—”

      
“Bein' in a family way ain't cause fer a woman ta be turned out ta pasture, Deborah,” Obedience interrupted. “Yew git kinda cranky 'n all cuz yew cain't handle food so good 'n yore played out tired, but it passes in a few months. Leastways it did fer me, ever’ time.”

      
Deborah was taken aback. “Obedience, you never told me you had children! Oh! I hope I didn't bring up painful memories.” She knew well the fearful infant mortality that claimed so many children on the frontier.

      
“Not so's I can complain, honey.” Obedience's brown eyes softened. “Birthed three younguns ta Mr. Freeman. Got me two fine sons, all growed 'n married back in Tennessee. Might even be a grandma by now, but, ‘course when I remarried 'n left, they wuz no way ta keep in touch. Always figgered on goin' back someday after I done good in Texas. Visit my daughter's grave 'n mebbe bring th' boys 'n their families back here. Now, with yew havin' a youngun, well I got me one o' them grandchildren fer sure here 'n now!”

      
All thoughts of ever leaving Texas and this gruff, dear woman were forgotten as Deborah hugged Obedience fiercely.

      
They had a passably decent meal at the inn. Deborah retired to the corn husk mattress she was to share with Obedience, while her friend braved the rain to see to their wagon. The two men they had hired in Brazoria to accompany them to San Antonio were rubbing down the team of mules.

      
Everyone is doing their share but me
, she thought bleakly as she dropped off into an exhausted sleep. In fact, that was far from true. She had insisted on paying Zebulon Moore and Ira Shroeder for acting as trail helpers and stock handlers. Both men carried Kentucky long rifles and were excellent shots, which afforded the women protection and assured them of fresh game on the seemingly endless trail.

      
If Deborah was “green from the States,” she was a quick learner, insisting Zeb give her lessons loading and firing a rifle. She became almost as adept at that as she had in her culinary endeavors. Obedience promised as soon as they were settled in San Antonio that she would teach Deborah how to bake the lightest, most toothsome crusty bread west of the Mississippi River. Even now, Deborah's biscuits were fluffy and her cornbread crunchy. She dreamed of a vegetable garden.

      
The next evening their supper was interrupted suddenly when Zeb rushed in with some startling news. “We got us company, folks,” he announced to the group seated around the table. “General Houston hisself with Colonel Hockley 'n three men from Washington-on-the-Brazos. He's come to lead our militia. We got us a gin-u-ine declaration of independence!”

      
Marsh Plunket, owner of the inn, jumped up from the table, splashing a spoon in his corn mush. “Glory be, we're finally free o' them greaser sidewinders down south.”

      
“Pears ta me,” Obedience said shrewdly, “thet we'll be free only if’n General Houston can whup Santy Anny 'n save all them men at th' Alamo.”

      
Deborah knew Obedience was thinking of her brother who was doubtless among the Alamo's defenders. He had long been a staunch Texas patriot.

      
“If’n thet fool Fannin'd get his fancy tail here like th' General ordered, they could march tomorrow,” Zeb put in. “Yew shoulda heerd th' General cuss when he heerd Fannin 'n his men wuz still sittin in Goliad.”

      
Everyone around the table chuckled, for Houston's colorful swearing was legendary. Deborah had read about the exploits of the brilliant politician who had been elected Governor of Tennessee before his thirty-fifth birthday, Andrew Jackson's hand-picked successor for the American presidency. Then, after a marriage scandal he had quit politics to live among the Cherokee in the Mississippi wilderness. Houston resurfaced in Texas three years later where he became embroiled in the long constitutional battle that ultimately led to the Texian break with Mexico. Now, he was taking command of the militia, including the ragtag volunteers milling about outside Gonzales.

      
After supper, Obedience and Deborah joined Marsh and Fannie Plunket, and Zeb and Ira on the front porch of the inn. Up and down the street people were beginning to filter out of their houses to listen for news from the council of war that Houston was holding just outside town. Some men milled about the muddy streets talking while others displayed rifles and handguns. A few women in damp calico huddled in small groups around the houses. An air of expectancy hovered over the small town as dusk settled gently and a light drizzle arrived with it.

      
“They been palaverin' a pretty considerable o' time, it seems ta me,” Marsh Plunket said.

      
“From what I heerd ‘bout General Houston,” Obedience guffawed, “they been listenin' while he done th' palaverin'!”

      
“ ‘Bout time someone took charge o' them damn militia—beggin' your pardon, ladies,” Zeb said with a flush.

      
Obedience snorted. “Jehoshaphat, we all got sense ta know whut needs doin'. Git all th' men with guns 'n guts an’ head fer Santone, pronto!”

      
“General Sam'll do it!” Fannie Plunket said, with vehemence.

      
Down the street two men, muddy and trail-stained, were talking with one of Houston's men, who then mounted up and escorted them in the direction of the army camp.

      
“Whut yew s'pose them Mex's is doin', goin' in ta see th' general?” Marsh speculated.

      
“Ain't thet Deaf Smith?” Zeb asked.

      
They all watched the buckskin-clad scout with his companion Henry Karnes ride toward the camp. In less than five minutes, they raced back through town headed directly to San Antonio, heedless of the darkening skies and the increasingly heavy rain.

      
Rumors were rife over the next two days, but Houston and the other military men were keeping their own counsel. Some folks said the Alamo had fallen, some that Santa Anna had been driven over the Nueces River with his tail between his legs. No one knew for sure.

      
Obedience and Deborah, like many travelers in Texas that spring, were stranded far from their destination. The fortunes of war would decide the fate of everyone. At twilight on March 13, Houston's scouts returned to Gonzales. Riding with them was a young woman carrying a baby. As Deaf Smith helped her dismount, she clutched the crying child to her bosom, almost collapsing when her injured leg buckled. Her face was gray with pain and her appearance was disheveled and filthy. But it was the dazed look of incredulous horror in her eyes that held everyone spellbound.

      
“I know I don't want ta hear whut thet poor gal has ta say.” Obedience sat on the mattress in their room, rubbing her big hands over her wrinkled cotton skirt. The townspeople had been hastily summoned by Houston to a clearing outside town. With leaden feet she and Deborah trudged to the meeting.

      
An uneasy pall hung over the crowd. Just then a graying giant of a man gently ushered a small woman into the midst of the people. Sam Houston was always courtly and considerate of women, but never more than of this young girl who must tell such a tale of savagery.

      
Deborah held Obedience's arm as Suzannah Dickerson described the fall of the Alamo. She had been within the walls on March 6, just before daybreak when the final bloody assault had begun. In less than ninety minutes, one hundred eighty-three Texians and their
Tejano
allies had died. The bodies had been stacked like cordwood in pyres and burned. Only the newly widowed Mrs. Dickerson and her child had been spared by the dictator and given instructions to carry word to the rest of Texas:

      
No quarter.

      
Deborah felt a shudder go through Obedience; but the big woman remained steady after that, her blunt features impassive while many of the other women shrieked and cried, knowing they would never again see husbands, brothers, sons. In fascinated horror, Deborah watched the gentle lion Houston place his arm protectively around the young Widow Dickerson, comforting her when she paused, overcome with grief and exhaustion.

      
But Suzannah Dickerson was made of the same stuff as Obedience Jones. Squaring her shoulders, and forcing down her tears, she gave the assembled multitude even more frightening news. The dictator had told her that he was marching directly to Gonzales with General Sesma. Over seven hundred of their elite vanguard were already on the road, surely by now not more than a few days away!

      
Gonzales was in imminent danger! A few hotheads were urging the armed men to stand and fight, others fled in panic, but most milled about waiting for someone to take charge. They did not have long to wait. Sam Houston, a head taller than anyone in the crowd, with a voice to match his size, bellowed out a command for silence.

      
“I want every man, woman, and child in this camp to attend me!” Hysterical women and shamefaced men shuffled quietly, awaiting the general's orders.

      
“I have less than four hundred men here, but others shall rally to the standard of Texas. We must stay alive so we can fight when the time is right. Until then, our families must be evacuated to safety. Then, we shall mass an army to deal Santa Anna a killing blow! Go to your homes and pack quickly. Take only what you can carry. We leave tonight.”

      
The general's sonorous, clear voice rang with purpose and calm. People responded to it. Deborah and Obedience headed toward the Plunkets' place with Zeb and Ira to get their wagon. Instead of heading west on the San Antonio road, they were striking out in the opposite direction toward Burnham's Crossing. Houston felt that having a few rivers between the Texians and the Mexicans would be a good delaying tactic, allowing him to regroup his scattered forces.

      
At eleven that night a long, meandering caravan straggled out of Gonzales. The drizzle had stopped sufficiently for all stores that could not be taken to be burned. A few explosions ripped through the still night air. Someone said it was whiskey barrels blowing up in the flames. “I’d a loved a snort o' thet stuff!” Obedience averred.

      
Obedience's large wagon, one of the few available, would have been commandeered by the army for the transportation of civilians, but the Widow Jones offered it gladly. Wet and miserable, Deborah sat on the front seat between Obedience and Fannie Plunket. Half a dozen other women and three small children were huddled haphazardly between boxes and bundles of food and supplies in the wagon bed. The rain began again in full force after midnight.

      
In the weeks that followed, the ranks of Houston's ragtag army swelled gradually. But the volunteers were outnumbered by terrified, fleeing civilians and many men desirous of fighting felt their first loyalty was to see their families to safety if the general would not stand and fight at once.

      
What had begun in Gonzales as an orderly retreat under army protection rapidly deteriorated into a rout. Farmers threw down plows in their fields, blacksmiths left forges glowing red-hot, shopkeepers tossed aside aprons and leapt over their store counters. Food and coffee were left to cool on the dinner table while cream curdled in the churn. All of Anglo Texas was in the throes of the ‘‘runaway scrape,” a headlong rush to the east to escape the invading Mexican army.

      
By the time Houston's army had reached Burnham's Crossing on the Colorado, the straggling civilian horde created chaos. It took two days for Houston's men to assist the civilians in crossing before the main force of the army could follow it on March 19.

      
Deborah and Obedience were among the first to cross the swirling red water, raised to flood level by the fierce spring rains. “Hold onta th' ropes 'n don't look back,” was all the big woman said as she stepped onto the crude, log raft after Deborah, who huddled near the middle with their belongings, praying. Driftwood bobbed and swayed with deadly menace all around the raft. Men on horseback were swimming unwilling mules, oxen, and horses across the river. Deborah closed her eyes. She wanted to stop up her ears and close out the sound of men's furious curses, horses' terrified neighs, and oxen's enraged bellows; but she could not. Her hands were fully occupied holding on to the ropes as the raft was buffeted across the river. Why couldn't Boston girls learn to swim like boys?
I'll drown in this wilderness!

      
Just then their raft hit an uprooted tree. A small boy standing near the edge tumbled between Ira's legs as he poled with all his strength, attempting to free them. The child was caught half-on, half-off the raft. Instinctively, Deborah leapt toward him and shoved him into his mother's outreaching arms, but suddenly the tree broke free of the raft, entangling her skirts in its limbs. She was pulled into the water, away from the bobbing raft. The more she struggled, the more she was drawn beneath the water as her hair tangled in the branches along with her clothing. The weight bore her down as she coughed and screamed. “Help me! Oh, please, God!”
Oh, Rafael, I don't want our child to die!